


Borealis

by horizon_greene



Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitute, Drugs, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-04
Updated: 2011-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-14 09:48:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horizon_greene/pseuds/horizon_greene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU in which Tim is a hooker working the streets of Seattle, and Barry is pitching for the Giants, in town for an interleague series against the Mariners. Paths cross.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Borealis

Sometimes, Tim thinks about pitching while he’s working.

It’s a game, really, and a lot of the basic principles are the same. He turns tricks pretty much the same way he used to read hitters: try a couple of things and determine what they like, what they don’t like, then figure out the most efficient way to finish them off. Simple stuff, really.

The gearshift jabs uncomfortably into Tim’s ribs, and he angles his body differently across the center console, out of the way. It’s always helped to be thin and limber in this line of work. Contorted and twisted around, he feels a hand settle in his hair, anonymous and demanding, and he sucks harder, deep-throating obscenely.

Over the years, Tim’s learned that there’s pretty much nothing he can’t do in the front seat of a car.

\---

Tim has money in his pocket and pain in several joints by the end of the night. He’s wet from the intermittent rain that’s been falling for hours, and he’s already dreaming of his bed when he comes around a corner and sees a man shuffling down the sidewalk.

The guy’s drunk and doesn’t seem to know where he’s going, and it’s all a bit weird—Tim doesn’t see many johns actually walking the streets, and when he does they’re certainly not aimlessly wandering around. Tim considers simply walking right by him, but he’s checking the guy out, in spite of himself. Attraction isn’t something Tim feels much, if ever, while he’s working, but this guy—tall, built like an athlete, hair just long enough to be a little wild around his ears—he’s exactly what Tim likes.

Tim knows he’s not the prettiest, but he knows how to make men want him, and a lot of the time it isn’t all that difficult. The right look, a few words, and they’re in the shadows, negotiating.

“How much?” The guy’s speaking slowly and deliberately—he’s messed up, but not completely sloppy. At least, not yet. Tim can smell tequila and that’s generally a bad sign.

“Depends on what you want.”

Tim watches as he leans back against the wall and looks him up and down, considering. Hazy orange glow from a distant streetlight angles across his face, and Tim narrows his eyes.

Wait a fuckin’ minute. He knows this guy.

Well, he doesn’t know him personally, but Tim follows baseball closely enough to know who Barry Zito is, and to realize that he’s got a contract more appropriate to high-end, steeply-priced escorts than simple street hookers like Tim. What the fuck is Barry Zito doing on Aurora Avenue—and down here at the gay end of it, no less?

“How much for you to blow me?” he asks, and there’s Tim’s answer.

He smiles distantly. “For you, baby? Fifty dollars.”

Money changes hands and they find a spot out of the way, in an alley behind what might have been a convenience store once upon a time, but it’s hard to tell now, the building boarded up and decayed to the point of being unrecognizable. It suits Tim’s purposes just fine, though, and he drops to his knees and unzips Barry’s fly.

It takes longer than he expected, and Barry seems to be getting more fucked up by the minute. He sways unsteadily on his feet, hands fumbling with Tim’s hair, and Tim—fearing that he actually might fall over—pushes him against the building and holds him there.

“I’m—” Barry warns finally, and Tim pulls off, finishing him with his hand, listening to the quiet gasps above him.

Moisture has soaked through the fabric of his jeans, and his knees pop when he stands up. He watches, eyebrow raised, as Barry spends half a minute trying, and failing, and then eventually managing to zip up his pants.

Then Barry stumbles forward out of nowhere, taking a couple of clumsy, off-balance steps, and Tim grabs him. “Hey, no. Stop stop stop.” He manhandles him back into an upright position, braced against the layers of particleboard covering a busted window. “Dude, you need a cab.”

The situation has deteriorated exponentially. He keeps a steadying hand in the middle of Barry’s chest as he pulls his phone out and calls for a taxi, then peels Barry off the wall and leads him back to busier streets.

Barry’s content to let Tim support much of his weight, and he’s too big—or Tim’s too small, whatever—for this to last very long.

Fortunately, the cab is waiting for them on the main drag, and Tim opens the door and pushes Barry inside.

“Take him to the Westin,” he tells the driver, then shuts the door and watches the taxi fade into the damp night.

Tim thumbs the corner of his mouth. Now that it’s over, there’s a wild little thrill rushing up his spine, in spite of his best efforts to stamp it down.

Barry fuckin’ Zito. It’s almost too strange for words.

 _Starfucker_ , he thinks, and heads for home.

\---

The novelty of it still hasn’t worn off by the next night, a lingering vague euphoric feeling flaring up every time he thinks about it. It’s a memory to tuck away, to keep, but it's not anything worth obsessing over. He goes about his business, turns a couple of tricks, meanders up and down the street looking for the next. He half-wishes he smoked cigarettes, just so he’d have something to do in between.

He’s certainly not expecting to see Barry Zito again.

So when suddenly Barry’s there, walking down the street and coming to a stop right in front of him, it doesn’t make any sense. Tim is shocked, rendered utterly speechless.

“I found you,” Barry offers helpfully, when the silence becomes too much.

“So you did.” Tim’s brain kicks into gear again, but everything is bogged down, moving at half-speed. “What are you doing here?”

Barry gives him a funny look. “Isn’t it obvious what I’m doing here?”

Tim is flustered, not thinking clearly. “I mean, dude. Isn’t it easier to just go find a groupie somewhere?”

The question seems to take him by surprise, which Tim thinks is only fair.

“Oh. So then, you already know…”

“Who you are. Yeah.” Tim shoves his hands into his pockets. “I’m not going to say anything, if you’re worried about that.” He shrugs, not sure if Barry’s going to believe him or not, but whatever. It’s the truth.

Barry shakes his head. “No, no. I just…That’s how you knew where to send the cab last night.”

Tim nods. “Most of the teams stay there.”

“I’d been wondering about that,” Barry admits. He pushes a hand through his hair, scrutinizing Tim for a moment, and then smiles. “But, yeah. Since you asked—sometimes it just gets too complicated with groupies. And anyway, most of them don’t have a mouth like yours.”

\---

They go back to Barry’s hotel room this time. It’s a far cry from last night’s alleyway—soft lighting, white bed linens, tulips spilling out of a vase in variations of red. Tim rubs the back of his neck, uncomfortable. He’s sharply aware of everything he’s already done tonight, skin sticky with sweat, hair messed up. “Do you mind if I, um. Is it okay if I shower?”

Barry is busy unzipping his hoodie. “Uh, yeah. Whatever you want, man.” He gestures towards the bathroom, and Tim ducks inside. A minute later, Barry calls through the door, “There’s an extra robe in there, if you want it.”

There’s an extra toothbrush, too, in the basket of complimentary toiletries on the counter, so Tim brushes his teeth for good measure and then sheds his clothes and steps into the shower.

He comes out a few minutes later to find Barry propped against the pillows, watching TV in nothing but a pair of shorts. He glances over at Tim and slides a hand down, palming his cock through the thin cotton.

Tim sets his clothes down on the edge of the bed and crawls over to him, untying his robe and shrugging it off his shoulders.

“What’s your name?” Barry asks as he straddles his knees, slowly tugging his shorts down.

He looks up at him through wet hair. “Tim.”

“Tim,” Barry murmurs, then exhales in a rush as he lowers his head.

Hands are immediately in his hair, pushing it off his face, out of the way.

Tim gets it, and if Barry wants to see, then Tim will give him a show. He knows how to make it look as good as it feels, lips and tongue working over the head, mouth smoothly sliding down, taking it all in.

“Goddamn,” Barry breathes, and Tim cautiously flicks his eyes upward. Some guys are weird about that sort of thing—don’t like to be watched while they’re watching—but Barry seems to relish it, meeting Tim’s gaze and holding it.

He lets his eyes go half-lidded, relaxing into it—the hands in his hair, the measured steady rhythm of mouth on cock, the muscles in Barry’s stomach twitching faintly under his fingers, sudden wet sound as Barry pulls him off.

“I want to fuck you,” Barry explains, and Tim nods, pointing over at the pile of clothes on the edge of the bed.

“In my pocket.”

He gets on his hands and knees, quickly swiping his mouth against his shoulder as he waits for Barry to get a condom and lube—a tiny, anxious moment, where he doesn’t know what to expect and can’t really control it.

Then slick fingers are pushing into him, and it’s all automatic—the sigh, the long slow arch of his back as he spreads his knees wider.

Almost immediately, his breath hitches as Barry finds the spot that makes him ache, working him over until Tim’s hard and panting. Then he’s sliding inside, getting in deep and angling just right, and Tim groans and pushes back against him, wanting all of it.

It doesn’t usually happen like this. Tim never expects much going in, mainly just wants to get his money and get out of there in one piece at the end of it. The fact that Barry knows what he’s doing—that this is actually _good_ —has caught him off guard.

A hand follows the curve of his spine, stopping just below his neck.

“What’s this?” Barry asks, fingers pressing into the symbol inked between his shoulder blades.

“Uh, man,” Tim breathes.

“Dude, I mean what does it _mean_?”

“No, I know,” Tim tries to explain. “It’s the Japanese character for ‘man’, is what it is.”

“Man?” Barry repeats, and Tim hangs his head, exasperated.

“Look, it’s a weird story, I really can’t even…” he trails off, moaning, because he really can’t talk—about his tattoo or anything else—right now, not while he’s getting fucked to the point where he can barely think.

 _Please please please_ is about the only thought he can manage, a mantra in his head. He’s going to come just from this, from Barry’s dick inside him and nothing else, and he can’t even remember the last time that’s happened. Tim’s not the type of guy who begs for it, though, unless he’s made—or paid—to do it, and he’s not going to start now just because Barry happens to be fairly amazing at this.

He shuts his eyes and groans, fingers twisting in the sheets as he comes.

Behind him, Barry swears softly, his hands tight against Tim’s hips. Tim feels him shift, weight angled across his back, and then Barry’s lips are on his jaw, the corner of his mouth, and Tim tilts his head.

They kiss like that—twisted around, messy and hot—until Barry’s finished.

Afterwards Tim lowers himself to the bed, rolling onto his side, and waits. He’s flooded with pleasant post-sex chemicals, but it’s not quite enough to blunt the edginess that he feels; this is generally where things have the potential to get weird, and he doesn’t know how Barry’s going to play it.

His eyes go wide when he feels a body press up against him from behind, arm sliding around his waist.

So Barry’s one of _those_ people, Tim realizes, the kind that like touching and closeness after the fact. Tim’s seen it all before, and he generally charges for it, too.

He nuzzles back down into the pillow and lets his brain go foggy, body buzzing from the first legitimately awesome sex he’s had in a while.

Some time later, he dimly registers Barry getting up, and opens his eyes when he hears him unzip his suitcase, watching as he digs through the layers of clothes.

“Do you smoke?” Barry calls over his shoulder, then turns around, holding up a baggie.

“Oh.” Tim perks up immediately. “Yeah.”

Barry rolls a joint, and they smoke it in bed, slowly and silently, until there’s nothing left. Tim props himself up on his side, mesmerized, as Barry drops the remnants into a half-full water glass.

“I wasn’t sure about you at first,” Barry says, swirling the glass around, watching the paper slowly disintegrate.

“What do you mean?” Tim asks.

“I wasn’t sure if you even, you know, liked guys, or whatever.”

Tim squints at him, thinking that Barry obviously doesn’t have much experience with prostitutes, if he’s that naïve. “I could’ve been faking all that,” Tim points out. “Or, well. Most of it.”

Barry raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Were you?”

“No,” Tim admits. He flops onto his back again. “I like getting fucked, in case that wasn’t clear.”

He searches for patterns in the texture of the ceiling. It’s white and perfectly smooth, a fruitless effort. “Anyway, I didn’t know what to make of you, either.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, big-time ballplayer wandering around that part of town? You just don’t see that every day. Or ever, honestly. I didn’t know what to expect from you.”

“Well, to be honest I’ve never done anything like _this_ before. But, like.” Barry shrugs. “It’s not my first rodeo, if you know what I mean.”

Tim grins. “Clearly.”

He watches as Barry gets up and carefully tucks the marijuana back in its hiding place, rearranging the contents of his suitcase around it.

“This may be an obvious question,” Tim starts, “but why is there a baseball in your bag?”

Barry grins and tosses the baseball over to Tim, who snags it out of the air.

“ _That_ is the ball from my 12th strikeout,” he explains, climbing back onto the bed. “Career high. Happened during the last series against Colorado.”

“Oh.” Tim tries to remember the last time he held a baseball, and comes up empty. It’s been a while. He rotates the ball in his hand, cycling through various pitch grips.

“You look like you know what you’re doing over there.”

Tim glances over and sees Barry propped up on his side, watching him.

“I do,” he says. And then, “I mean, I used to.” He rubs his thumb over the seams, half-forgotten friction tugging at his skin.

“Well…” Barry says, slowly. “It’s a day game tomorrow. If you stick around, we can find a park and play catch afterwards.”

Tim hums noncommittally. He might think about pitching from time to time, but to actually do it is something else entirely. That part of his life is done, finished, and he’s not sure there’s any point in trying to resurrect it. He lets the ball slide off his fingers and roll across the bed, coming to rest against Barry’s leg.

Barry picks the ball up and tosses it back into the suitcase. “Think about it.”

\---

In the morning, Barry wants head before he leaves for the ballpark, so Tim gives it to him, curled around in the sheets, Barry’s hands slowly pulling through his hair. And then, Tim stays. He goes back to sleep for a while, wakes up slowly and orders room service, and lounges around on the bed in his robe. It’s all very _Pretty Woman_ ; he feels like a kept man, and he can’t decide whether or not he likes it.

Barry must be a very rare sort of idiot, he figures, leaving someone like Tim alone in his hotel room. He notices the lock on Barry’s suitcase and is vaguely mollified, but Tim remains skeptical of his overall level of common sense. Tim’s no thief, but he knows plenty of people in his position who would be, if given the chance.

Tim’s pretty sure that helping himself to one of the $6 bottles of water on the dresser doesn’t qualify as stealing.

\---

When Barry gets back that afternoon, they find a park and play ball.

They stand apart and throw a baseball back and forth—easy, casual, just long toss, basically. It’s nice enough to be throwing again, but Tim can’t stand the expression on Barry’s face, all smug and pleased with himself, like Tim’s a fuckin’ Little Leaguer and Barry’s giving him the experience of a lifetime.

“C’mon, show me your stuff!” Barry yells after a while. He steps in closer and drops down into a crouch.

It’s playful, not very serious, and resentment begins to coil in Tim’s gut. He’s not a goddamn charity case. He was a _good_ pitcher, used to throw 95 miles per hour anytime he wanted, and he’s insulted by the situation, by Barry sitting there with nothing but a glove to protect him, inviting Tim to throw at his face like there’s no way that could possibly be dangerous.

“Let me see your windup,” Barry urges, smirking. Tim rolls the ball around in his hand and fights the urge to roll his eyes.

He takes a breath and then closes his fingers around the seams, torques his body, and aims for Barry’s balls.

Not unexpectedly, his control is for shit. The baseball bites into the grass several feet short and to the left of its target, ricocheting harmlessly off to the side.

Tim’s heart is hammering in his chest. He hasn’t thrown a pitch—an honest-to-god pitch—in years, and that was a terrible attempt, but it was _something_. A real pitch—and it had been fast, too, the gaping expression on Barry’s face proves it—and Tim’s body thrums with energy, with remembering what this is like.

“Dude.” Barry stands up slowly, staring at him, and then walks over to fetch the ball and toss it back. Tim notices with satisfaction that Barry’s not smirking anymore. He’s just looking at him—looking at him differently, maybe.

Tim dials the velocity way down (now that he’s made his point, the last thing Tim needs is to bust up Barry’s face with a baseball) and throws pitch after pitch. Fastball, slider, change-up—he even throws a couple of curveballs, watching them float wildly away from Barry’s glove. He doesn’t worry about it; his curveball was always absurdly bad, even when he was throwing it all the time.

Barry’s actually pretty decent at this, catching most of what Tim throws at him and patiently chasing down the really bad misses. He tosses the ball back to Tim, over and over, and after a while, Tim feels himself begin to smile.

\---

They get Chinese take-out for dinner and split a six-pack between them, then climb into bed with the last two beers and turn on the television.

Tim rolls his shoulders, trying to loosen up the muscles. He’s probably going to be sore in the morning. Next to him, Barry flips erratically from one channel to the next.

“So what’s the story?” Barry asks, finally settling on SportsCenter. “You must’ve played college ball, with an arm like that.”

Tim leans back against the pillows. “Couple of seasons at Kentucky.”

Barry takes a long swig of his beer. “Good pitching school.”

Tim nods. “That’s why I went there.”

He can feel Barry looking at him, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the television.

“So what happened?”

Tim’s not all that eager to discuss his past, generally, but the alcohol is working its magic, making him feel loose-lipped and pliant.

“I went a little crazy at school. Started partying and doing drugs the minute I got there, wasn’t putting the work in. I didn’t pitch well in heat and humidity, either, which was kind of a problem in the SEC.” His right hand is hot, rubbed raw from throwing again after all this time, and he presses his palm against the condensation gathering on the bottle. “Coaches found out about the drugs, and that wasn’t cool, and then they found out that I was fucking around with one of my teammates, and that was not cool _at all_.”

He pauses, shrugging. “That was pretty much it. They took away my scholarship, kicked me off the team. I’d been really inconsistent, so I don’t think they cared.”

“What about your teammate?”

“He was batting .361 that season.” Tim glances at Barry. “He stayed on the team. And got really good at screening my calls and acting like I didn’t exist.”

Barry nods slowly. “I’ve…” he hesitates, taking a careful look at Tim. “I’ve gotten involved with teammates before. It gets really fuckin’ messy, even if you don’t get caught.”

“Yeah.” They’re quiet for a minute, finishing their beers. Barry sets his empty bottle on the nightstand, idly spinning it between his fingers.

“So, I mean. How’d you end up doing what you’re doing?”

Tim laughs—a strange, disjointed laugh, because it’s not the first time he’s heard that question and he still doesn’t know what else to do when he’s asked.

“Um, well. I tried to come home, but my dad didn’t want anything to do with me. My mom left when I was still in high school, so she wasn’t around. I didn’t know how to do anything except play baseball and I had a pretty ambitious coke habit at the time, and it just seemed like a quick way to get some cash.”

It sounds kind of overly melodramatic, and Tim shrugs it all away. “Anyway, it’s not as if life’s a complete disaster or anything. I’m not poor, and I’ve got good instincts—nothing really bad has ever happened to me.” He pauses and smiles a little. “Besides, I think I’m remarkably well-adjusted, considering.”

Barry laughs. “You’re a regular fuckin’ miracle.”

Tim looks down at his hands. “Thank you, by the way, for today.”

Barry clears his throat and changes the channel again. “No problem.”

It’s kind of an awkward moment, and Tim decides there are probably better ways to thank him. He pushes himself up onto his knees.

“It was nice,” he continues, slowly straddling Barry’s hips. “More fun than I expected it to be.”

They fuck like that, Tim working himself on Barry’s cock, hands pressed to Barry’s shoulders holding him down. Tim can tell that it’s making Barry crazy, can see it in the way he begins arching up into him after a while, and Tim likes the wildness in his eyes, the desperate roll of his hips as he comes.

He gives Barry a minute to calm down, watching him with his tongue pressed lightly into the corner of his mouth, then shakes the hair out of his eyes and touches himself, slowly jerking off. He’s breathing hard, palm splayed open on Barry’s chest, making sure Barry can see everything. He feels his eyes all over him, and his hands aren’t far behind.

He comes, messy across Barry’s stomach, and bites the inside of his lower lip to keep from saying his name.

Panting, shoulders slumped, he lets Barry push the damp hair off of his face and neck. Then Barry’s tugging him against his chest, down to his mouth, and Tim lets himself go, closing his eyes and kissing him back.

\---

Barry has a _routine_ on the days he starts. Tim learns this very quickly, when he goes to turn on the television after breakfast and Barry nearly rips his head off.

After breakfast is Meditation Time, for one hour exactly, Barry explains, so Tim flops down on the bed, chin in his hands, and watches Barry cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed, perfectly still. After a while he begins to mumble a litany of self-motivational affirmations, the sort of intense psychobabble that ordinarily would make Tim laugh out loud, but at the moment he doesn’t dare.

At some point he falls asleep, and wakes up to the sound of Barry turning on music. Tim sighs and rolls over towards the window. To some degree Tim understands the need for routine; he had one too, back in the day, and he stuck to it religiously. But he never dragged it out over the course of the entire day and he certainly didn’t time it down to the last second with a big black watch the way Barry does.

He goes back to sleep and has screaming heavy metal dreams until Barry touches his shoulder and tells him he’s leaving for the ballpark.

\---

Tim tunes in to the game later that night to watch Barry’s start. He tries to play it cool, eyeing Barry’s socks and the tight fit of his pants, but by the second inning he’s a nervous wreck, sitting on the edge of the bed, living and dying with every pitch.

He’s generally familiar with the downward-spiraling roller coaster that Barry’s career has become, but from the sound of things—and judging by the 12-strikeout baseball in the suitcase—things have been trending upward of late. Tim, superstitious as any player, is desperate for another good performance, and leery of what it might mean if Barry has a terrible outing three days after meeting him.

Barry leaves the game after seven innings, with a two-run lead, and Tim watches anxiously as the bullpen nearly blows the save in the eighth.

For the first time in his life, he roots against the Mariners.

\---

Tim watches the postgame coverage, and then watches the replay of the postgame coverage, just to see Barry’s locker room interview a second time. Then he turns off the television and waits. He’s standing by the window, staring out at the city, when Barry gets back to the hotel.

“I watched the game,” he calls over his shoulder as Barry sets down his bag. He looks back out at the multi-colored lights, the blackness where the city ends and Puget Sound begins, and presses his fingertips against the cool glass.

“Yeah?” He feels a hand at the small of his back, and then two arms wrapping around him from behind.

“Yeah. Congrats on the win.” He tilts his face up, smirking. “Nice pants.”

Barry laughs and kisses his neck. “Did you like that?”

“I liked everything.” He closes his eyes briefly. “I was rooting for you, you know.”

“Were you now.” Barry’s hand slides down, over Tim’s cock, and he arches up into the touch.

“It’s kind of a big deal,” he points out, breathless. “I’ve been a Mariners fan for 25 years.”

“Uh huh,” Barry murmurs, making it clear from the tone of his voice that it’s all relatively inconsequential at the moment. He tugs Tim towards the bed and pushes him onto the sheets, and Tim grabs a fistful of his shirt and pulls Barry down with him.

They fuck face-to-face, slow, deep strokes that leave Tim gasping, his toes curling against the sheets. It’s torture—sweet, delicious torture—and only Barry’s mouth slanted across his own, open and wet, keeps him halfway sane.

Afterwards, Barry nuzzles down into his neck, in no hurry to move.

Tim blinks at the ceiling. He’s generally suspicious of people who desire this much physical contact after sex; it hints at a certain clinginess, some sort of emotional deficiency that Tim doesn’t have the patience or inclination to figure out. He hasn’t been this incessantly cuddled since his second-to-last boyfriend, and that relationship had been borderline disastrous—though the cuddling, admittedly, wasn’t wholly to blame. Tim supposes that with the right person, it might be kind of okay. He winds a leg around Barry’s thighs, keeping him in place.

“You never told me about your tattoo,” Barry murmurs against Tim’s collarbone.

Tim laughs. “Oh, yeah. Well. My brother and my dad and I all went to the shop together and got the same symbol. Sort of this, like, male bonding thing. It was cool at the time, but it’s kind of ridiculous now to have ‘man’ tattooed on my back, under the circumstances.”

Barry grins, then his face goes serious all of a sudden. “Do you talk to him, ever? Your dad.”

Tim shakes his head. “He was really ashamed of me when I got kicked out of school. He doesn’t approve of my lifestyle”—he pauses, making air quotes for emphasis—“And that’s without even knowing what I do for a living. He taught me how to pitch—I was like his pride and joy, better than my brother, the one my dad thought would make it big. When I fucked it all up—the way I fucked it all up—he just…he couldn’t even look at me.”

Barry finds the blisters on his palm, kisses them.

“You know, I used to dream of being a starter in the major leagues,” Tim muses, watching Barry mouth at his skin. “Cy Young Awards, perfect games, World Series shutouts…”

Barry glances at him through Tim’s fingers, and Tim smiles wryly.

“Now I’m fucking a starter in the major leagues instead,” he says. “Ain’t life funny, sometimes.”

Barry grins, and Tim turns his head, looking out the windows. There’s a helicopter flying out over the water, lights flashing. He wonders if it’s the Coast Guard, or maybe Airlift. His old apartment was only a couple of blocks from the hospital and Tim used to hear the helicopter with alarming regularity, someone else’s tragedy flying over his head three or four times a day. It always made him feel inordinately lucky.

Tim brings a hand up, curling his fingers in the hair at the nape of Barry’s neck.

“What the hell were you even doing on Aurora?” he asks.

Barry laughs quietly. “I was out drinking with some of the guys. They decided to drop me off there on the way home as a joke.”

“Oh.” Tim’s not totally sure that’s a very good joke, or maybe he just doesn’t get the humor.

Barry pushes himself up on one arm and looks at Tim. “I broke up with a girlfriend a few months ago. They wanted me to, like, get my groove back, or something.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Anyway, whatever, it was a lame idea. I think they figured I’d find a cab and find my way home. Except I found you instead.” He pauses, smiling. “Ain’t life funny.”

\---

They fuck again in the morning, one last time—out of control, frantic sex, and Tim is sweat-soaked and shaking afterwards. He aches a little inside, but Tim welcomes the pain. He wants the soreness, wants to feel Barry for days.

He sprawls against Barry’s side, letting his head loll across the curve of his shoulder.

“You okay?” Barry asks, and Tim almost laughs at him. He’s not sure how to explain that what they just did—Barry getting a little rough with him—that was nothing. He’s done stuff that was a lot more physically demanding—stuff that sucked, that he just had to endure, because that’s what he was being paid to do.

But it doesn’t seem worth it to get into all that, and it’s probably TMI anyway, so Tim just nods, closing his eyes as Barry’s hand slides into his hair, fingertips pressing against his scalp.

He drifts for a while, content and half-asleep, until his brain violently jerks his body awake. Next to him, Barry jumps like he’s been shot.

“Sorry, sorry,” Tim says, sitting up, feeling his heart race. He rubs a hand across his face and looks at the clock. The bus taking the Giants to the airport leaves in an hour, and Tim has to be gone before then.

“I should shower,” he mumbles, sliding his legs over the side of the bed and getting up.

He doesn’t rush, enjoying one last turn in the hotel’s truly awesome shower, and when he comes back out, Barry is sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling money out of his wallet.

It’s super-awkward, this situation; it hits him like a punch in the gut, and he lowers himself clumsily onto the mattress.

“How much do I owe you?” Barry asks, sounding as uncomfortable as Tim feels.

“Um.” He can barely breathe. Tim tries to do the calculations in his head, but everything is swirling and blurred together, impossible to quantify. “I don’t know,” he admits finally.

Barry gives him a look and fishes out several more hundred-dollar bills. He adds them to the stack and then hands it all over to Tim, who takes the money and shoves it into his pocket, head down. He’s embarrassed, but he knows it’s stupid; he shouldn’t be. This is what they’d agreed to, after all. This is what it’s supposed to be. He pushes the hair out of his face and meets Barry’s eyes.

The silence seems to stretch forever.

Barry breaks it. “Let me see your phone,” he mumbles, holding his hand out. Tim passes it over and watches as Barry presses buttons for a minute and then gives it back. Tim looks down at the newly-programmed contact.

“If you need anything, you can call me, Tim.”

Tim nods and slips his phone back into his pocket.

“I should go.”

Barry follows him to the door, but before Tim can actually leave, Barry leans against the wall and pulls Tim in.

It’s a test. Tim recognizes it; he’s off the clock now, under no obligation to do anything. But he lets it happen, tilts his face up so they can kiss.

It’s a strange moment, kind of beautiful in a way but in general not a good idea, and he can’t afford to draw it out. He pulls back, bracing himself with one hand on Barry’s chest.

“Shower. And don’t miss the bus,” he says, smiling a little. He backs away and opens the door, stepping into the hallway. “See ya.”

“See ya,” Barry echoes.

Tim walks towards the elevator, counts seven steps before he hears Barry shut the door. The smile fades, and by the time he leaves the hotel, he feels unconscionably frayed, unstable.

Tim finds a bench on the corner and sits down. He puts his face in his hands, exhaling deeply against his palms.

It’s not okay, letting himself get so worked up over this. He can’t still be here in half an hour, falling apart at the bus stop while the Giants drive away. That would be beyond mortifying.

He gets it together, sits up and tucks his hair behind his ears, and pulls his phone out. He scrolls through his contacts until he finds Barry’s number, and quickly sends a text.

 _Think it’s good luck if I keep rooting for you on the road trip?_

He feels better immediately, because now the communication goes both ways. Barry has his number, even if he doesn’t do anything with it, and that means something.

His phone beeps cheerfully at him.

 _Seems to be working. Keep it up :)_

Tim wrinkles his nose a little at the smiley face; he wouldn’t have expected Barry to be the type.

It’s sort of cute, he decides.

He takes a deep, calming breath and stands up. He needs to go home—needs to check his mail, water his plants, find some different clothes to wear. He’s spent the last three days lounging around a luxury hotel in a waffle-patterned robe, and that’s not real life—not life as Tim knows it, anyway.

Once he gets back to his normal routine, everything will be fine.

He looks at the text one more time, then tucks his phone back into his pocket, next to the wad of money, and walks away.


End file.
